Of Hailstorms and Serial Killers
by runtus maximus
Summary: Getting in the car with a serial killer? So not a great idea. zemyx, AU


Ah, winter. Icicles sparkle like fairy wands from every available surface, and snow floats gently from the skies, hovering in the air in a shimmering white curtain before draping the ground. The grounds of Hollow Bastion University are transformed into a foreign land, where the prospect of winter break and cheerful Christmas mornings give even the classes an air of jolliness.

Yeah, well. That's all delightful for some people, but Demyx has felt his toes and fingers slowly cracking and fissuring with every step he takes away from the music hall. Trudging through the slush and that collected around the bus stop, he briefly entertains the idea of stopping by Sora's dorm just to remind himself what warmth felt like, but then he remembers Get-Away-From-Those-Chemicals-Vexen, a classic Type #2 weirdo.

Stupid roomies.

Oh, well. Best just to get home as fast as possible, even if the only source of heating was a couple blankets and the oven. Besides, at least it's only raining.

Warmed (well, metaphorically anyway) by the possibility of hot chocolate in the near future, Demyx hums cheerfully underneath his breath, air guitaring in appropriate points. Meh, winter isn't too bad.

Something pings against his cheekbone. Hail.

This, of course, is the moment when Demyx realized There Was No God.

As he nears the bus stop, hair plastered to his cheeks and mouth, he is barely able to keep his eyes open thanks to frosted eyelashes. The crunching of cars whizzing over the now-melting snow merely rubs it in further that Demyx is poor and there's no chance of him getting a car. Ever. Cars are for rich snobs, obviously.

Honestly, sometimes Demyx wishes he had just taken a job at the local fast food joint instead of deciding to "make a name for himself and end the terrible cycle of normality in the family." At least then he could have saved up enough money to buy a moped by now, working his way up the ladder to become Chief Hamburger-Maker at the age of nineteen. A fast-food prodigy.

The sound of one of the rich snobs honking gently makes Demyx jump out of his reverie, music folder leaping gleefully out of his hands and sitar case thudding on the soggy sidewalk. The white car's window rolls down to allow Demyx to see a vaguely familiar face- not that he can see much by the streetlight, especially through the hail.

The driver seems to be beckoning to him. Suddenly Demyx is reminded of all the stories where poor college students go missing, their raped and mutilated bodies found months later.

Crap.

Rapist? Nah, too nerdy looking.

Mugger? Pfft. Look at those stick arms.

Serial Killer?

...Dammit.

Killer is giving him an odd look- one eyebrow raised, thin lips tilted ever so slightly upwards. Not, Demyx decides, in a nice way. More like a smirk than a smile.

"Demyx?"

Demyx hadn't thought it was possible to speak with absolutely no inflection before, but now he is proven wrong. He wouldn't be surprised if his ears are bleeding.

Serial killer! His mind screams.

Killer's smirk turns into condescension. "Demyx?" he asks again.

Wait. Squinting, Demyx inches closer.

"You're Zexion!" he blurts. "That freakishly smart guy from my psych class!"

The scornful look intensifies and he feels his face flame with embarrassment. He scrambles to pick up his sheet music in the silence that follows.

"…I suppose some may refer to me as such." The voice is still apathetic.

Demyx keeps his head down. He hears the window roll up and breathes a mental sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, a pale hand comes into his line of vision and hoists the sitar case over a small shoulder.

His eyes bug out. "What are you doing?"

Cool blue eyes glances over at him. "I'm assuming that you do not choose to walk home in twenty-seven degree weather without either a jacket or coat. But if I am mistaken, then by all means, correct me."

Demyx flushes again. "How do you know I don't like the cold? You could be butting in on my favorite time of day." A piece of hail pings off his eyebrow. He steadfastly ignores it.

The raised eyebrow puts in another appearance. "You don't like the cold," Zexion says matter-of-factly. "You wear as many layers as possible, even when the temperature is above sixty degrees. You sit as far as possible from the air conditioning. You enjoy cuddling, which is most likeley indicative of the desire to share body warmth." He pauses and surveys Demyx impersonally while the college student shivers and tries to pass it off as fidgeting. "Yet you don't ever wear a coat. Why?"

Demyx blinks. "Okaaaay," he says, dragging the word out. "Do you watch everyone that much?"

Zexion's face colors, eyes narrowed briefly before his face is back to an impenetrable mask. "Are you going to get into the car or not? Contrary to your apparent beliefs, frostbite has no benefits and many disadvantages."

It's hailing faster now, ice rebounding from the sidewalk like bullets to smack against their shins, and against all laws of nature _it's gotten colder._

Demyx eyes Zexion apprehensively, noting with satisfaction that he stands a good head taller than the other student. Despite his sharp tongue, he doesn't look like a serial killer. And it's _cold_, dammit.

Why not?

"Sure," he sighs.

He's not quite sure if it whatever flits across Zexion's face quite counts as a smile, but it makes something in his chest stir in response as he grins back.

Zexion's face is quite out of character: eyes slightly wider than normal, both eyebrows arched this time, the student comes disturbingly close to gaping out the windshield.

"Careful, Zexy. You're dangerously close to showing some expression," Demyx remarks coldly , a bit miffed at what he deems an extreme reaction.

(.Okay, so his apartment building isn't very clean. And it is kind of dark. And, there are a few broken windows. All right, it isn't very welcoming. But the owner lets Demyx play as loud as he wants, any time of the night. That counts for something, right?)

Grey-blue eyes immediately narrow coolly and Zexion's entire head snaps in his direction. "What did you call me?"

Demyx suppresses a grin. "I think you heard me."

Icy silence. The force of Zexion's glare might have fazed Demyx if he weren't enjoying himself so much.

"Come now, Zexy. Don't be like that."

"Demyx."

"Zexy, my Zexy, O Sexy Zexy…"

"Stop it."

"Oh, try not to have an aneurism. I can't afford a cell phone, so you'd probably die by the time I got in my apartment."

By God, this was the most fun he's had in a while.

"Demyx," Zexion grits out through clenched teeth. "Who is the one in control of the car?"

"We're sitting still."

Zexion throws the car into drive, tearing away from Demyx's apartment and onto the street before Demyx can react. "Now we aren't."

Demyx whips around, glaring- he should have known better than to get in the car with a potential serial killer! "How am I supposed to get home now? Even you can't be heartless enough to drop me off in the street."

The driver snorts, gaze flickering between his passenger and the road. "You think I'm going to let you sleep in that dump back there?"

"That dump is my apartment, thank you! Where else am I gonna stay?"

Zexion lets out a tiny sigh, like the answer is obvious. "With me, of course."

Demyx blinks. Stops trying to throw himself out the car window. "Oh. Okay, then."

And for the first time that night, Zexion grins.


End file.
